


Survivor

by deutschistklasse



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Fanfiction, Mentioned Zuko (Avatar), Mentions of Violence against Civilians, Missing Scene, POV Song, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschistklasse/pseuds/deutschistklasse
Summary: Song is just a simple girl trying to cope with her fear of golden-eyed people. But an encounter with a filthy, clearly hurt but proud golden-eyed boy who barely can accept help makes her realize that she is stronger than she thought. - Inspired by Rock Bottom, Chapter 9.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	Survivor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renegade_of_theworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegade_of_theworld/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rock Bottom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27117754) by [renegade_of_theworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegade_of_theworld/pseuds/renegade_of_theworld). 



> I was always fascinated by Song. She was attacked by the Fire Nation. I'm sure she recognized the golden eyes as Fire Nation heritage. And still, she chose kindness, she chose to help and then to let go.  
> Renegade_of_theworld's story just made me want to write her POV even more. So this is my interpretation of her character in Rock Bottom.  
> Warning: There are brief mentions of war, attacks on civilians, attacks on women, trauma, and implied torture in the case of Zuko. Just a few sentences and nothing explicit.

Song was six years old when she first saw her father help a refugee everybody refused to go near. They were going back home after buying some groceries when they noticed the boy sitting on the fountain’s edge in the middle of the town. She remembered him because of the curious eye color. She never saw something like that before. Those eyes were like that of a predator, wild and hungry.

The villagers were wary of the bedraggled boy, giving him a wide berth, but not her father. He left Song in the shade of a building and approached the boy. He gave him enough coins for two-days worth of food and then tried to come back to her when the boy tackled him to the ground. He grabbed the bread from their basket, then scampered off while Song shrieked. And shrieked. And shrieked until her father hugged her, stroking her hair and rocking her slightly.

When her sobs turned to whimpers, her father wiped her eyes with his sleeve, then kissed her nose, making her giggle a bit. He lifted her up, then they simply went home. He never pursued his attacker. When Song’s mother asked for the bread, he just shrugged.

„We will survive a day without it.”

* * *

Song was seven years old again on a trip to the marketplace with her father when the golden-eyed strangers came to their town. They were so similar to that wild-eyed boy her father helped months ago and so different. Their eyes were wild and held hunger too. But they weren’t desperate like that boy was.

They laughed while their town burned, and the people ran. They didn’t stop to help a young woman struggling in the arms of a soldier. The townspeople were too afraid to lift a finger against them, but not her father. He hid her under a stone bench, then tackled the man to the ground giving the woman enough time to escape.

Song never saw her father again. He was dragged away by the soldiers. When she ran after them, she was roughly grabbed by a soldier and thrown to the ground. Another one threw fire at her to keep her away when she tried to follow them again. The pain in her leg didn’t register until after the attack ended and their neighbor took her home in his arms. While she howled in her mother’s lap, she shushed her.

„Your father is strong. He will come back to us. Until that, we will survive, Song. We will survive.”

* * *

Song was twelve years old when they left their home. They struggled to live under Fire Nation rule, but they were treated like dirt. The soldiers took every year more and more from their livestock and crop. Her father was missing for years, and they couldn’t stay anymore if they wanted to really live. So one day her mother sold their house to their neighbor’s son, packed a light bag, took her hand and they were off. They avoided the main road, not wanting to run into Fire Nation soldiers or Earth Kingdom robbers. They were equally dangerous.

They wandered from town to town, working for food and shelter, searching for a sufficiently hidden village where they could settle down until they found the perfect place. The town wasn’t big, but it had everything they needed. Her mother found a job at the local hospital, and Song sometimes helped her treat the patients.

The people in the hospital were mostly elderly people or sick children, but once in a while, there were refugees too. Sometimes those refugees were mixed blood. They were golden-eyed, which made Song nervous. But not her mother.

„Don’t worry. They won’t hurt us.” She hugged Song, then stroked her hair reassuringly. „They are people too, Song. They feel the same pain as you. They are just as afraid as you. They deserve the same care and kindness as you. I know how scary it is to you, but if you can, don’t refuse to help somebody just because of their heritage. War children aren’t responsible for their parent’s sin.”

So Song helped her mix the medicine and administer it to the patients. At night she hugged herself and told herself a half-lie.

„I won’t refuse to help those who need it, even if I’m afraid. I’m brave just like my mother. Just like my father. I will survive a few hours with them.”

* * *

Song was fourteen years old when she decided on finding a job in the town. She never liked to work in the hospital, and she really wasn’t sure she wanted to be a healer. After that talk with her mother about helping people with mixed blood, her mother never once forced her to help with other golden-eyed patients.

If there was somebody with mixed heritage, Song was always given a choice. She could help treat them or go after supplies, mix medicine in the back room, or if it got too much, she could go home. Sometimes Song chose to help, sometimes to escape. She didn’t know if these made her a bad person or not, but she was disappointed in herself. Her mother just hugged her and reassured her saying that it just made her human.

So she applied for a job in a little pottery shop. Of course, she didn’t entirely stop helping her mother. On the weekends she could be found alongside her in the hospital, mixing and brewing painkillers and calming tea for a few hours.

On the weekdays though she was in the pottery shop from sunrise until late afternoon. Her boss was a strict man with an almost unhealthy obsession with cleanliness. Song made sure that everything was spotless in the little shop. Her boss liked it enough to raise her payment a few coins for having common sense.

She had much more free time on the job than before. There were days when nobody entered the shop. If there were customers, not many people bought something, and almost every time they searched for something simple and cheap. They had a table with their fancy pottery, but they were just for show. Nobody ever placed an order for them.

Song had a favorite cup in the exposition. It was a painted cup with flowers curling around on it. She thought many times about buying it, but then she talked herself out of it. She didn’t need a fancy cup. That didn’t mean that she didn’t admire the motif every day. She thought more and more about learning how to do it.

The weeks passed slowly. Some would hate the monotony of her days, but Song found it calming. She knew what to expect from her boss or the customers. Their whims became familiar, comforting even. She thought less and less about her father and her old home. She dreamed less and less about the Fire Nation soldiers. She wasn’t haunted by golden eyes anymore. At nights she didn’t need to lie to herself. She could look in the mirror and say, „I’m well enough. I did survive. Now I can begin to live.”

* * *

Song’s fifteen birthday came and went without fanfare. Her boss didn’t let her leave sooner, but he gave her a bag of nuts as a gift. She thanked him, closed the shop, then she went home to her mother and the cake she prepared for her. She left the bag in the shop. It would come in handy if she was ever hungry.

She was contented with her life. She had a few friends. She learned how to paint some simple motifs and how to cook a few meals. On the weekends she helped clean the hospital and stock up with medicinal herbs, sometimes brewing medicine with her mother, sometimes alone. She helped even now treating the patients. She was proud of herself for how well she was handling her life.

Then she found the boy on the porch of the shop. He was filthy, all ragged clothes and unkempt hair. If her boss ever saw him on the steps, he would immediately faint. So she asked him to leave.

The first thing she saw after the boy looked at her were the golden eyes. They were hungry, tired, pained. Not wild like those she saw on the boy her father helped. Not cruel like the eyes of those soldiers who dragged her father away. Not almost lifeless like those she saw on the patients her mother helped. They were wary, but they held a desperate will to live. To survive in a world where most people were against them.

The second thing she noticed was the scar. A burn just like hers. That was intentional, not an accident. He suffered too. He was attacked by the Fire Nation too. She choked down her startled gasp, then forced herself to take a step closer. Her inner healer catalogized what she saw on the boy. Starved, faint, hurt. A bad leg, using a staff to rise up. A bad shoulder. He was really hurt.

She was in an instant at the boy’s side. She wasn’t thinking anymore about those dreaded golden eyes. She tried to help him, but he refused it. He did not admit that he needed food or a place to stay the night. She offered him a meal, trying and failing to convince him to stay. Her mother could have looked over his injury. At least he had some medicine, so she didn’t need to plan how to drag him to the hospital. She was sure he wouldn’t come willingly.

She wanted to do something nice for the boy who was rejected by both sides. Her heart ached with sympathy. Now she understood why her father helped that boy all those years ago. Why her mother helped golden-eyed refugees even now. Nobody deserved to be alone when they were in pain.

She chose her favorite painted cup to heat the water and searched for her bag of nuts. The boy needed to eat something before he took any medicine. Song guessed he refused her mother’s food because of some misplaced pride, but maybe he could be convinced to take the nuts. She hoped he had some common sense and will accept it.

She tried to make him wait for her shift to end. She offered again to take him home and at least have dinner. But after half an hour she saw the boy limping away. He was painfully slow. She could catch up easily and stop him. She could take the cup back. She could ask for the guards’ help in apprehending him and taking him to the prison or to the hospital. But she didn’t do it. She let him go.

At the end of her shift, she placed some coins on the counter. She always wanted to buy that cup, but she never had a good enough reason for it. But this would do. That boy stole the cup from her, but she forgave him. She would consider it as a gift to him. He needed all the help he could get, and if that cup helped him survive, then it was worth the trouble. She just hoped that boy could find in himself to not just survive but to live too.

Song closed the shop, then went home. She stepped lighter than before. She felt alive, buzzing with restless energy. She didn’t need her mantra anymore. She was a survivor, and she was stronger than ever.


End file.
